Doctor Who: The Day of the Doctor is a Triumph for Steven Moffat

Steven Moffat was set no small task on Saturday night. Love it or hate it, Doctor Who is now a flagship BBC property, and worth many, many millions of dollars to the Corporation. The 50th Anniversary Special wasn’t just written for the Doctor Who fanbase – it was written for the broader sci-fi market of America, where the real money is to be earned (hence dollars as the correct currency of measurement).

In writing the 50th Anniversary Special, Moffat had to keep the fanbase happy, impress the Yanks and turn around two years of under-achievement with the franchise, which have been a letdown compared to the promise Moffat showed when he was appointed showrunner in the first place.

Moffat did all that, and more. People sometimes think writing is just pretty prose. It’s not. Without a plot, it all falls into the void. The Day of the Doctor was a tour-de-force plotting performance on Moffat’s part, and a supreme exposition of the screen-writer’s art.

Moffat faced three particular and peculiar challenges, any one of which could have broken another writer. It is to Moffat’s supreme credit that he overcame all three.

The Huey-Dewey-Louie Problem
In his book Hype and Glory, screenwriter William Goldman recounts a problem faced by a friend of his who was a scriptwriter on Charlie’s Angels. It seems the Angels, like all actors, were acutely conscious of billing, and kicked up blue murder if they thought one of their number was getting more lines than the other. That led to ridiculous dialogue where the writers had to make sure that each Angel got an equal amount of speaking time.

So, instead of having one Angel say “I’m going down to Tesco’s to get a box of teabags and a pint of milk,” Kelly would announce her intention to go to Tesco for teabags, Sabrina would tell her to make sure it’s Lyons’, and Jill would remind her not to forget the milk. Equal dialogue for Huey, Dewey and Louie.

Moffat had the same problem. He had three leads – three Doctors who are the same person and yet subtly different. He didn’t have clear delineation of character, but he did have three actors as capable of munching scenery as anyone out there if not kept on the bridle. And Moffat succeeded against the odds – each Doctor was able to co-exist, perform and not crowd the others out.

The Timey-Wimey Problem
Time-travel will never be possible. The potential paradoxes are impossible to resolve in reality. But time travel is always interesting in science-fiction, because it allows us to wonder: what if? What if Hitler won the war? What if John F Kennedy hadn’t been shot?

The problem of writing time-travel science-fiction is in dealing with the paradoxes – following each paradox through to its logical conclusion. This is what made Blink, the Doctor Who episode that really announced Moffat’s genius, so good. The paradoxical elements of Blink fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. Moffat was less successful in the expanded River Song story that dominated the season before last, as the plot never quite clicked open and closed as it had in Blink.

The Day of the Doctor isn’t quite as complex as Blink, but there are many paradoxes to be resolved through the three strands of the story – the contemporary, the Elizabethan and the Time War. Moffat tied them all together beautifully in a way that, like all truly great stories, that is both inevitable and unexpected. This was triumphant plotting on his part.

The Gallifreyean Problem
Russell T Davies, Moffat’s predecessor as Doctor Who showrunner and the man credited with much of the modern Doctor Who’s success, made a big decision at the start of that process – possibly bigger than he realised at the time. Because Davies found the Doctor’s essential loneliness an interesting part of the character, Davies decided that he would make the Doctor lonelier still by wiping out the Doctor’s home planet of Gallifrey.

The problem with that is that it leads to a considerable hostage to fortune as regards future stories – it’s not easy to churn out plots, and by wiping out Gallifrey Davies had denied himself a very rich potential source. Davies was always more of a soap-opera writer than a science fiction writer and either didn’t realise or wasn’t bothered by the problem of the fall of Gallifrey – his own plotting and frequent resorting to alakazam! solutions would suggest the latter.

Moffat, however, is a science-fiction writer and must have known for some time just how important the return of the Time Lords must be. (It would be interesting to find out just when Moffat started plotting The Day of the Doctor – many years ago would be a sensible bet). Because he is a science-fiction writer, Moffat knew that Control-Z wouldn’t cut it, and for him to solve the Time Lord problem just when the series needed a barnstormer for its 50th Anniversary is a breathtaking achievement.

It had been reasonable to assume that Moffat’s attention towards Doctor Who was distracted by his writing of Sherlock, Doctor Who’s blood relation as an archetype. Sherlock has been superb, and Moffat’s Who started falling off as Sherlock thrived. The Day of the Doctor dispelled all fears that the madman in the box is in danger of being neglected. The BBC will be booking convention at Comic-Con in Las Vegas for many years to come, and Moffat deserves no small credit for that. I hope he gets a raise.

Flaky Narrative Snow Good for Doctor Who Christmas Special

Imagine if you cooked Christmas dinner and remembered everything except the gobbler. You had ham, you had stuffing, you had roast spuds, mashed spuds, carrots, peas, gravy, cranberry sauce, the works - but you forgot the actual turkey himself, the sun around which all else revolves.

This is what happened Steven Moffat in The Snowmen, this year’s Christmas episode of Doctor Who. He had a new title sequence, a new Tardis, a new companion, as fine a scenery-chewer as is known to humanity to play the villain – but what he didn’t have was a story to pull it all together. Doctor Who is a kids’ show – it needs a narrative. Leave the other stuff to Pirandello.

It can’t be easy to write Doctor Who. The show’s fiftieth anniversary looms in eleven months from now and there is a huge population who want to see something spectacular to mark the occasion. They may be the sort of human plankton who have no lives and are in front of their laptops when they should be partaking of festive cheer, but they are people too and are capable of weeping. More to be pitied than censured, really.

Perhaps the pressure of that anniversary is getting to Steven Moffat, the man in charge of Doctor Who (now gloriously titled the “Whopremo”). He will surely want to do better than the twentieth anniversary show, which really wasn’t that good. He is also distracted by Sherlock, which is as good a show as exists on TV currently.

But for whatever reason, Moffat dropped the ball tonight with the Christmas episode. Did anybody really understand it? You correspondent didn’t and, like the Reverend Mother in Midnight’s Children, An Spailpín is not stupid, having read several books.

It’s also worth questioning the point of hiring as fine a scenery-chewer as is known to humanity and not writing lines for him to gorge on. Michael Gambon was eye-rollingly superb in Moffat’s first Christmas episode, a Christmas Carol, but Richard E Grant was wasted in The Snowmen. He got one peach of a line near the start but spent the rest of the show pretty much sucking a lemon and having to pretend he liked it.

As for Clara, the new companion, she was there and then she wasn’t. Jenna Louise-Coleman has now played the new companion as a computer-savant, a barmaid and a governess. The Doctor himself generally waits for a regeneration to make a personality change but Clara/Oswin seems to go through them in the time it takes to hard-boil an egg.

It would be nice if the powers that be were to let her aye be aye and her nay be nay. Miss Coleman is as cute as a button but she may have to keep notes written on the back of one of her dainty little hands to remember if she’s the same person after lunch as she was at elevenses.

Perhaps Moffat is just trying too hard?  The presence of those anonymous bloggers in bedrooms terrorize both young and old, but sometimes maybe you’re better to just have the Doctor let one companion go, grab the next by the hand and run down a corridor somewhere. This is Doctor Who, after all. There’s a formula that’s worked for fifty years. There’s no need to re-write it as six characters in search of an alien.

How to Watch Doctor Who - A Five Step Program

The sixth season of the new Doctor Who reaches its midpoint finale on Saturday. It got off to a rocky start with a confusing two-part opener, but my goodness gracious, it’s fairly hit its stride now.

Now in his second year in full command of the series, Steven Moffat has brought the old warhorse to undreamed of glories. Moffat gets Doctor Who, and utilises his considerable powers as a writer and storyteller to make some very thrilling science-fiction television. The current Doctor Who is a lustrous jewel in the BBC’s starry crown.

Only thing is, if you sit down in front of your TV this Saturday night expecting to be blown away, there’s a very good chance you’ll have no idea what all the fuss is about. That’s one of the problems with TV as an art form, you see – if a series has been on air a long time, you have more than a little catching up to do.

And if the series dates back to the 1960s, as Doctor Who does – well, I mean to say. You’d need a time machine, wouldn’t you? There are 776 episodes aired and you may count on it that at least 500 aren’t much cop.

So what, then, is Doctor Who, why is it worth my while to watch and with so many episodes out there, where on earth do I begin?

It’s worth your while to watch because the age at which Doctor Who is best enjoyed, ten, is the age when you’re imagination is at its richest and the world seems full of possibility. The makers of the Star Trek movie understood this absolutely, which is why that movie was such fun, instead of a lot of po-faced sturm und drang. Best leave that to Bergman.

Steven Moffat has returned that childlike glee and wonder to Doctor Who. The BBC run Doctor Who Proms to help introduce kids to classical music, and they are currently running a competition where kids can write their own three minute episode. What’s not to love about that? Take a look at the kids' reaction to the entrance of the monsters at last year's Proms - really, if you're not charmed, you need to see another kind of doctor entirely.

Doctor Who’s origins are the derring-doers of British popular fiction, the Richard Hannays, Bulldog Drummonds and Sherlock Holmeses, mixed with the British scientific know-how that saw the Victorians conquer the world. The Doctor might be a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey, but he’s as British as Marmite.

Any further attempt to explain and we turn into Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons. If you’re still interested, check out these stand alone episodes from the past six years. If you like them, then perhaps a boxset of Season 3 and, who knows, maybe even some Tom Baker or Jon Pertwee from the 1970s heyday for some hardcore exposure. Enjoy.

Blink. Season 3, Episode 10. The perfect Doctor Who story, on so many levels. Every story about time travel gives rise to paradoxes, and those paradoxes particularly engage Steven Moffat, the writer of Blink. In Blink, not only does Moffat unravel a complex timey-wimey story and ties it all up again in a perfectly formed plot arc, but he does it all with the Doctor himself sidelined, and the action led by Sally Sparrow, played by the wonderful Carey Mulligan, who went on to be Oscar nominated last year. 42 minutes of sublimity. Perfect.

Human Nature/Family of Blood. Season 3, Episodes 8 and 9. A two-parter in which the Doctor becomes human to hide from his enemies. The story is set in Edwardian antebellum England, a civilisation on the eve of its doom, and features a lovely performance by wonderful, heroic and terribly under-rated Martha Jones. In a story marred by some over-writing in the second part, Martha, a medical student having to work as a maid as part of her and the Doctor’s diguise, remarks to her friend that she likes this new teacher, John Smith, because he doesn’t discrimate against Martha because she’s a Londoner. I love that line.

Amy’s Choice. Season 5, Episode 7. Doctor Who is meant to be weird, and very few episodes have been as weird as Amy’s Choice. The Doctor and his companions find the TARDIS, the Doctor’s time machine, invaded by a Dream Lord, who is messing with their heads big style. It’s marvellous, spooky and especially interesting when we find out just who the Dream Lord actually is.

The Girl in the Fireplace. Season 2, Episode 4. The Doctor as hero. Another episode written by Moffat, in which Doctor Who returns to its roots as a program that will help kids with their history. Guest star Sophia Myles makes a very beautiful and suitably tragic Madame de Pompadour.

The Doctor’s Wife. Season 6, Episode 4. A thrilling tour de force, and the best jumping off point into the long backstory of Doctor Who. Guest written by Neil Gaiman. Marvellous. Just marvellous.

The Doctor Who Christmas Special

An Spailpín Fánach is unlikely to be alone in considering the Doctor Who Christmas Special a Christmas TV highlight. But to really understand the appeal of the long-running TV show, it’s more instructive to look back to the summer, when the Doctor Who Prom was held in the Albert Hall.

The wonderful thing about Doctor Who Prom is that music from the TV series can be used as a way of introducing children to orchestral, actual, music, as opposed to the unspeakable X-Factor and its vile spawn. But this summer, there was an extra twist at the Royal Albert Hall: they brought along monsters from the TV show.

Highlights from the Prom were broadcast in September and it was wonderful to see the reaction of the kids as the monsters suddenly clanked, glided and slithered down the stars, as appropriate.

The ideal audience for Doctor Who are not internet saddos. They are children, from about age seven to eleven, and those lucky souls who remember what it was like to be that age.

The great thing about being aged between seven and eleven is that you’re old enough to tell the difference between a grocer and a goblin, but you’re still innocent enough to believe that there are such things as goblins and spooks and weirdies in the first place.

And even though you know there really aren’t any monsters under the bed and the creaking in the house is just the wind – well, maybe it isn’t. Maybe this time it really is the sound the advance craft of Admiral Zozo and his Martian fleet landing in the garden, and it’s now down to you to save the Earth. Maybe. You never can tell, and there’s no point in taking a chance when the future of the entire planet is in danger.

And that duality, between having being told by your parents that there are no such things as Daleks or Cybermen or Venetian vampires, and then actually those crazy chicks in the white dresses gliding down the stairs in the Royal Albert Hall with those gobs full of pointy teeth – well, I don’t know about you adults, but I’m going to keep my two eyes on them and I advise you against making any sudden movements, or else it could be curtains for the lot of us.

And that’s the joy of Doctor Who. People who should know better have tried to load the show up with a lot of sturm und drang but it’s all my hat. If you want Schopenhauer, read Schopenhauer. Leave fighting the Death Lizards of Megalon 7 to the professionals.

This is something that the current Doctor Who showrunner Steven Moffat understands absolutely. He’s said that he decides on what goes on the show according to whether or not he thinks it’ll scare the bejabbers out of his kids. Once it does, it stays in the show. How perfect.

The Doctor Who Christmas episodes have been a mixed bag since they were introduced for David Tennant’s debut, with Tennant’s exit and the Kylie one being particularly weak. This year’s seems rather similar to a story by Chas. Dickens in its inspiration, but no matter. It’ll be wonderful for an hour. Christmas is a good time for Doctor Who. Who is Santa after all, but another traveller in time and space? Just like a Time Lord, in fact. Oh hold on ...

The Triumphant Return of Mr Sherlock Holmes

It was hard not to grin like an idiot watching the updated Sherlock Holmes on the BBC on Sunday night. Updating an icon is a little like defusing a bomb – cut the wrong wire and it’s curtains.

Instead, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss successfully remained true to the spirit of the original while updating Holmes and Watson from Queen Victoria’s London to Boris Johnson’s.

It’s not the first time Sherlock Holmes has been updated, of course. The marvellous Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes movies were updated to the 1940s for reasons of patriotism and they worked, because the character stayed the same. There was nothing eminently Victorian about Holmes – he is the timeless archetype of the man who can figure anything out. He transcends eras in that sense.

How, then, to make Sherlock Holmes work in 21st Century London? The great city herself is a start. London looked wonderful in the first episode of Sherlock, and certain iconic London landmarks are used with great skill, not least the house at 221B Baker Street itself.

An Spailpín made it his business to pay it a visit on a trip to London once, being a fan of long-standing, and it was just wonderful to see Holmes and Watson fly out the door into the recognisable 21st Century night on Sunday.

Stephen Moffat has a gift for casting. After the triumph of Matt Smith as the eleventh Doctor Who, Moffat has hit the jackpot again with Benedict Cumberbatch as Holmes and Martin Freeman as Watson. The tense, coiled spring presence of Cumberbatch is reminiscent of Jeremy Brett, and no greater praise exists.

Watson is a triumph. Watson represents the plodding mortal against the Sherlockian superman, viewing Holmes with our eyes and ears. Martin Freeman’s glum, stoic and impossibly, glorious British Doctor Watson is a triumph. He is the mustn’t-grumble Britisher that took Quebec and held Rourke’s Drift. And he gets some terribly droll lines too.

The writing is another triumph. The dialogue crackles and, while the plotting was a little weak in the first episode, the primary goal was to establish the characters and these are now already carved in stone as a truly great Holmes and Watson.

The sublime nature of Mycroft Holmes’ entrance leaves little room for doubt that the next two episodes will be of sufficiently fiendish cunning that even the Sunday Game itself will have to take a back seat to the rejuvenated bloodhounds of Baker Street. The game is very much afoot.

Blink: Why the New Doctor Who Will Be the Best Ever

Blink, the tenth episode of the new Doctor Who’s third season, is the reason why fans are so looking forward to the new season of the most successful sci-fi TV series of all time.

Yes, David Tennant is gone, with Matt Smith becoming the Eleventh Doctor, but Steven Moffat has taken over from Russell T Davies as the Doctor Who show runner and in Moffat, the BBC have a man who truly understands the fundamental nature of the show and has the power and potential to develop Doctor Who to its fullest possibilities.

Blink is the proof of that pudding. Blink is the new Doctor Who’s Mona Lisa, its Nozze de Figaro, its Citizen Kane. A defining moment, and a glimpse into what Doctor Who could be if the right man were in charge, which at last he is.

Why is Blink so good? In what way is genius manifested in this story of Sally Sparrow, an ordinary English girl who gets involved in some extra-ordinary events?

The fact that Blink is Sally’s story is the first stroke of Moffat’s genius. It takes astonishing skill and no small amount of courage to remove your central character from the action and still keep him central, but this is what Moffat achieves.

The Doctor gets maybe five of the forty-five minutes of screen team in Blink, but he is still central to the story, the straw that stirs the drink, the sine qua non. Like Hannibal Lecter in Silence of the Lambs, or Harry Lime in The Third Man. Genius.

Second stroke of genius: Moffat’s profound understanding of the nature of a time travel show. Of all the tropes of science fiction, time travel is the least likely to be achievable. It’s more or less impossible.

But in terms of what if, in terms of exploring the limits of what we know about the nature of physics and of the universe, time travel captures the imagination like nothing else does. What if you get off your boat in the time stream, and walk upriver to meet your earlier self? Those sort of questions.

And those sort of what if time travel questions are what Moffat understands and delights in. Moffat is always true to the puzzle he sets himself. He never succumbs to the abracadabra solution that a weaker writer would, where the Doctor makes everything all right with a wave of his magic wand/sonic screwdriver. Instead, Moffat has a meticulously worked out plot that snaps into place the way all great art should. Unexpected yet inevitable. Brilliant.

The third stroke of genius is in the iconography of Blink. The show has received kudos for centring on the blink conceit, and what happens when you blink, but get this: blinking isn’t the central conceit. The statuary is.

A less talented writer may have thought of blinking, of what happens when you close your eyes, but he or she might not have thought of the statues. Britain is replete with statues from its past that no longer mean anything in the 21st century, either celebrations Britannia Triumphant from the days of Empire or the statuary of the Evensong-singing Anglicans. They’re everywhere, but nobody notices them. Moffat noticed them, and turned them into monsters.

The tightness of the writing is extraordinary. There are no false notes. If you are ever tempted to turn a friend onto Doctor Who, you will cringe during some moments, where short cuts are taken just to move things along, or something is just plain bad. It’s very hard to hear the phrase “Harriet Jones, MP,” without feeling the need to tear the ears off your head, for instance.

In Blink, by contrast, every line is perfect. Well, maybe one “I’m really, really sorry” from the Doctor, but that may have been a contractual obligation. Otherwise, it’s perfect.

(The little story on which Blink was originally based was pretty well written too).

The fifth reason Blink is so good is because the production team were so extremely lucky in their casting. Blink is so tightly plotted it would have worked anyway. But Carey Mulligan was extraordinary, extraordinary, as the beautiful, wistful, Sally Sparrow, and Mulligan’s performance combines with all the factors mentioned above to bring Blink to the level of the sublime.

Carey Mulligan was nominated for an Oscar this year and has a glittering career ahead of her. She absolutely graced Blink as Sally, the Companion Who Never Was.

Recent interviews with Matt Smith in the Daily Telegraph and Steven Moffat in the Guardian promise a thrilling start to a new era. Blink will never be replicated of course, but Moffat’s presence as the deus post machinae gives reasons for tremendous hope. Doctor Who returns this Saturday. Geronimo.





Technorati Tags: culture, TV, BBC, Doctor Who, Blink, David Tennant, Matt Smith, Stephen Moffat, Carey Mulligan

The Tenth Doctor Deserved a Hero's Death. He Didn't Get One.

David Tennant’s final voyage as Doctor Who was appalling.

Heroes deserve heroic deaths. David Tennant’s Doctor did not get a hero’s death. He got a coward’s death. He deserved better than that.

The mortal blow that finished the tenth Doctor was appalling. The director of The End of Time remarked on Doctor Who Confidential just now that they considered the twist – where the four knocks motif was not a death blow from a greatest enemy but something else – was a great twist. No it’s not. It was awful. Imagine James Bond taking on Ernest Blofeld in his lair, beating him, and then slipping on a bar of soap on his way home and breaking his bloody neck. It’s just stupid.

As for the rest of it, God forgive Russell T Davies for sending the tenth Doctor off snivelling into that good night. Shakespeare told us over four hundred years ago that cowards die many times before their death but the valiant never taste of death but once. This news has not reached Russell T Davies, who wrote the script. He takes every opportunity to say how frightened the Doctor is of dying. What’s so heroic about that?

There’s nothing wrong with being frightened of dying. But if you’re the lead heroic character in a sci-fi series it’s hardly appropriate. You can write a death scene where your hero is frightened without making your hero look like a chump. Butch and Sundance’s last stand springs to mind. Russell T Davis let his Doctor down. Making “I don’t want to go” his final line is worse than pathetic.

It’s obvious from Doctor Who Confidential that Tennant himself was deeply unhappy with that farewell line too. Doctor Who could never have realised the potential it has realised without Tennant, and he deserved better. All those final goodbyes were my hat as well. He had a longer send off than Frank Sinatra. The Doctor wasn't dying, he was regenerating. There's no need him to make that trip. No need. A terrible exercise in ego fulfillment. Shame shame shame.

But, as remarked here before, things can only improve when Stephen Moffatt takes over. It’s interesting to note that the official BBC Doctor Who site are already using the new logo for Matt Smith’s Doctor, and the trailer looks just wonderful. Onwards and upwards in the walk in eternity.





Technorati Tags: culture, TV, BBC, Doctor Who, David Tennant, Matt Smith

David Tennant's Farewell to Doctor Who

The highlight of Christmas 2009 for this blog will be David Tennant’s final appearance as Doctor Who on the BBC. Your faithful correspondent realises that he is an unearthly child in this respect, but what can you do? Love is love, and An Spailpín has been obsessed with Doctor Who since the late 1970s.

Even when it betrays me, I still come back to the flickering blue light and the woop-woop-woop sound of the TARDIS dematerialising. And I didn’t even see the TV shows at first – it was the Target Books in the Ballina children’s library that hooked me.

The BBC are quite proud of the fact that they have longest running Sci-Fi TV show in the world (Stargate is second, since you ask) but there is a world of difference between the Doctor Who of its original run from the ‘sixties to the ‘eighties and it’s current, post-Cool-Britannia incarnation. Every generation leaves its stamp on its art, both high and low forms, and sci-fi is no different.

Doctor Who was originally commissioned in the ‘sixties under the Reithian mandate to educate the masses. History without tears, as our time travellers meet Aztecs and Romans, Robespierre and Richard the Lionheart. There was a specific injunction in the original spec against BEMs – Bug Eyed Monsters.

In what is perhaps the only instance of a positive result from scope creep in the history of Western civilisation, the BEM injunction was merrily ignored from the start and series has been serving up monsters ever since.

In its seventies heyday Doctor Who was a meld of the two distinct strains of traditional British heroes. The Doctor’s genesis as a hero is owed firstly to Britain’s tradition of engineers and boffins. The men who built the railways and steamships that allowed a small foggy island to conquer the world, men like Stevenson and Brunel. Men who were good with sums and used their heads more than their fists.

And then there are the gentleman adventurers from whom Doctor Who derives that other part of his character. The clubland heroes of the Richard Hannay /Biggles/Bulldog Drummond type, chaps of the right sort who derringly did for queen and country, and expected no more thanks than a good yarn with the boys back at the club.

Jon Pertwee, the third Doctor, was the epitome of this – Pertwee served on the HMS Hood during the war, and that officer strain can be seen in his portrayal of the Doctor, making small distinction between the control room of the Tardis and the bridge of the HMS Torrin, in which Noel Coward so famously served.

There is no trace of these clubland heroes now, just as the clubs themselves have fallen to the march of time. Just as Doctor Jeckyll could never quite return to what exactly it was that made him Mister Hyde, so the BBC lost its way in Doctor Who, as the series suffered an arresting decline in quality in the ‘eighties before finally going gently into the good night in 1989, unloved and unmourned.

The BBC must have been rolling the dice a little when the series returned in 2005, but its success must be beyond their wildest dreams. Doctor Who is now as popular in Great Britain as marmite. It is popular because it has kept up with the times, and delivered a Doctor for twenty-first century Britain.

Where the clubland heroes of the Edwardians were fired by cast iron belief in the divine right of British rule, contemporary heroes reflect Britain’s profound lack of identity at the moment. The legacy of Empire has been fully discarded in contemporary British society, and Doctor Who reflects that. Hence the thick layer of melancholy that underlies all the Doctor currently does, and his identity as a man whose people have been destroyed. A pret-a-porter depiction of post-imperial Britain.

Even the upper crust twang of all previous Doctors – the patrician tone of Jon Pertwee, the stentorian voice of Tom Baker, the precise elocution and diction of Peter Davidson – have been zapped for Christopher Eccleston’s northern accent and David Tennant’s alwight geezah tones – rather than Tennant’s own strong Scottish accent, interestingly.

Russell T Davies has been hailed as the saviour of Doctor Who (although the Guardian reports this week that the BBC approached him, rather than vice versa. An important distinction) but as a writer the man is more soap opera than sci-fi. Jackie Tyler. Donna Noble. That hideous couple on the Kylie Christmas special. If a pair of Daleks glided into the Rover’s Return and demanded “BOD-ING-TONS! BOD-ING-TONS!” they could not have been more out of place than Davies’ beloved soap opera characters are in Doctor Who. All this and wonderful Martha Jones, beautiful, clever and oh-so-brave, exiled after only one season. Bizarre.

Davies’ emphasis on the Doctor’s loneliness and other, more adult, themes is out of place. If you want adult themes, go read some Russian novelists. This year’s Star Trek reboot got it right in pitching the movie exactly where it should be, at ten year olds. They can worry about sturm und drang when they’re shaving. In the meantime, they should have their minds opened up to wonder, and left to run with that as far their dreams may take them.

Tennant’s charisma was such that he was able to ride through some of the appalling writing, just as Patrick Stewart was able to spew out any old blather about the dilithium crystals on the deck of the starship Enterprise and make it sound like Cicero denouncing Cataline in the Roman senate.

Tennant’s successor, Matt Smith, may yet surpass Tennant himself, just as the unknown Tom Baker surpassed Pertwee, because of the sheer quality of the writing, which cannot but improve considerably.

From next year Steven Moffatt takes over the running of Doctor Who, and the show is in safe hands. Moffatt not only wrote some of the best episodes of the revival, he also wrote the best single episode of the series ever, Blink, in Season 3 of the new run. Perhaps next year, when appetite is whetted for the Eleventh Doctor, we’ll go through here why Blink was so very outstanding. In the meantime, it’s vale atque ave, farewell and hail, to David Tennant and Matt Smith respectively. Can’t wait.







Technorati Tags: culture, TV, BBC, Doctor Who, David Tennant, Matt Smith

Doctor Who and the Ear of Tin

There’s a marvellous line in the 1967 Batman movie – the old Burt Ward Batman, the Pow! Biff! Wallop! one, as opposed to the more sturm und drang of Tim Burton and Christopher Nolan’s movies – where Batman goes into a restaurant. The maitre d’ asks Batman if he’d like his usual table.

“No,” says Batman. “I don’t want to attract attention.”

If you get that, you get science fiction and fantasy movies. If you don’t, you don’t, and you might as well surf on brother, and come back once I have it off my chest. Anyone who’s still here probably enjoys the touch of sci-fi as much as your correspondent, and is almost certainly as bitterly disappointed as An Spailpín Fánach with Saturday’s final episode of the third series of the revived Doctor Who.

The set-up had been marvellous, and John Simm munched scenery all around him last week as Harry Saxon, the new Prime Minister of Great Britain who is actually the Master, the Doctor’s fellow Time Lord and greatest foe. Simm had been so marvellous in Life on Mars that his casting was hailed all around as being sweet as a nut. Add in the synchronicity that Harry Saxon’s new term as PM coincided with Gordon Brown’s, the boringly real PM, and fans everywhere thought they were in for a treat – accroding to Gallifrey One, eight million viewers tuned in, a 39% audience share.

How silly they must feel now. It’s not much fun to be promised Frank Sinatra and be delivered Frank Spencer instead, and people are annoyed. And rightly so. Russell T Davies may have had sufficient industry clout to revive the beloved British hero in the first place and deserves kudos for that, but it’s fairly clear that when it comes to fantasy writing the kid has a tin ear and a profoundly limited understanding and appreciation of the genre. He just can’t do it.

The point of the Batman story above is that, for the citizens of Gotham City, seeing a six foot tall guy in a mask and cape chowing down on his meatloaf and mashed potatoes in a restaurant is no big deal. He’s part of the scenery. If you live in Gotham City you don’t double-take when you see Batman, any more than you double take if you see a junkie shooting up heroin by the river Liffey. It’s part of the scenery darling. And that little vignette showed all that. It didn’t tell, it showed.

Russell T always tells, and never shows. It’s awful. The first scene in last Saturday’s Last of the Time Lords tells what’s happened since The Master took over by having the misfortunate Martha Jones ask – ask! - some sham, and then he tells her. He tells her – I mean, why not have RTD come on himself, just like he’s reading the news? The mind boggles, and the tears flow.

Worse again, Davies’ plotting – what some terrible comment poster refers to on the Guardian’s Arts blog as “Davies ex machina” – lovely – is worse than feeble. He has no feel for the genre, a complete tin ear and no respect at all for the conventions under which all fantastic fiction must run. Because you’re asking for a suspension of disbelief in the first place by having time lords, or vampire slayers, or Vulcans, you have to stick rigidly to the rules of the universe you created. So, although the Doctor travels through time and space, he can’t use that as plot resolution. That would be cheating.

How does Davies’ resolve the Master’s one year dictatorship of Planet Earth? He gets the Doctor to turn back time by one year precisely. Angels and ministers of grace defend us.

Compare, contrast, and dear God, please learn, from Buffy, season two, episode 22, Becoming, Part 2. Angel’s soul has been restored by Willow’s use of the Orb of Thesulah. But, as senior writer Marni Noxon has pointed out, to simply magic up plot resolutions is cheating. Therefore, Joss Whedon uses the soul restoration as a further means to twist the knife – Angel’s soul is restored only after he has started the process of ending the world, a process that can only be stopped with his blood. So the heartbroken Buffy once more choses duty over desire, looks her first love in the eye, and runs him through with a sword. Now that’s writing.

Davies has a step of the road to go yet before he’s there. And he has to recalibrate his ear too – you need a certain language in fantastic writing, and Davies’ is just too damned twee to get it. Orb of Thesulah is good stuff. It sounds lovely. Davies’ predilection for ladies of a certain age who look like they own Aga cookers, a la Harriet Jones, MP, Florence Finnegan and Professor Docherty, is grand if he’s writing the Golden Girls, but this is Doctor Who, baby. It’s a completely different ballgame.

Bitterly, bitterly disappointing, especially after such a strong season. Doctor Who has gone from strength to strength since its return, as, if I may dare, Davies’ influence gets diluted by people who have a better understanding of how this stuff works. David Tennant is a considerable improvement on Christopher Eccleston (part of whose casting was his Northern accent, to show the Doctor isn’t actually a toff, thus ignoring the fact that the most popular Doctor had the plummiest voice of all), and some of the scripts have been marvellous. Blink was a triumph, Human Nature also (even if Family of Blood didn’t quite deliver on its promises) and your correspondent is prepared to fly in the face of popular opinion and say that he loved Daleks in Manhattan, and thought the pig-slaves were just marvellous (don’t you see? That’s what Daleks do! They enslave the locals! Oh, never mind). We have another Christmas episode to look forward to now, and then even more blissful news that Russell T may himself be moving on, and leaving the series to someone who understands the genre a little better. I wonder - does anyone know if the great Jane Espenson has ever wished to live and work in Blighty?





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